


afloat a winter sea

by tagatha (tag)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Graphic Description, M/M, mention of water sports, minor Katsuki Yuuri/Christophe Giacometti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tag/pseuds/tagatha
Summary: Victor tells Yuri he’s retiring before he tells anyone else. Yuri gives a shit.
Relationships: Victor Nikiforov/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	afloat a winter sea

In Sochi, Yuri attempts to confront Katsuki in a men’s room and gets cockblocked by Christophe Giacometti. 

Chris is purring at the idiot while Katsuki is huddled in a stall, actually crying literal tears. 

“Darling, can you give us a moment?” Chris says over his shoulder, hardly looks at Yuri, his large hand curled over Katsuki’s knee, squatting on the floor of a public toilet.

Katsuki sniffs hard and scrubs his sleeve over his face. 

Victor is wrong. This loser is no threat. 

“Pathetic,” Yuri tells them both, punctuated with a satisfying kick to the stalls on his way out.

*

Victor finds him on the concourse, tries to hand Yuri his equipment bag, fails. 

“You’re in a rotten mood for a gold medalist,” Victor snorts, dutifully rolling both bags. 

“I’ll cheer up when Yakov gets around to your scolding,” Yuri shoots back. 

Victor’s eyes had found his when the music ended, and Yuri had clapped his hands raw, grinned around his fingers to whistle sharp over the roar of applause.

“Nonsense,” Victor snorts. “Every jump was exquisite.” 

“The tape will tell.” 

Victor regards Yuri from under the sweep of his hair, his smirk heating. 

“It’s a feisty kitten,” he mock-whispers.

“ _Jesus, Victor,_ ” Yuri hisses, but leaves it when they pick up Yakov in their wake.

*

Victor claims the front seat of the van and Yuri glares at Victor’s head for abandoning him to the girls in the back. 

Yuri feels itchy and grasping, unfinished. It’s been hours since he touched ice but his muscles are still hot and singing, little twitches in his thighs like the burn of spins. 

If he tells Yakov he’s experiencing an emotion, Yakov will lecture him at high volume, dismiss Yuri’s worry, and then tell him to channel it into Worlds, that the season is only half over, that there is more gold to be collected, so lock it in, and then: more practice. The cure for all.

Yuri watches the grey water beyond the boardwalk, lit under the cloudless night, and knows that’s not the reason for his fingers tapping anxiously on the upholstery. 

The finals mean traveling with the senior team, and a double-dose of Victor. Team practice, team meals, sharing a room, he’s infused with Victor. Suffocating in Victor for real, not just wishing he was. 

His fifth Grand Prix and Victor’s not even smug about it: he _expected_ the win. He’s inhuman with careless confidence, calmly arguing with Yakov over the low buzz of the radio. Yuri wants to kick the seat, settles for checking the ISU boards on his phone for scathing technical reviews of Victor’s long program. Yuri likes to read them aloud and watch Victor’s mouth tighten. 

There’s nothing but praise.

Yuri cinched the Junior Grand Prix final. Only self-sabotage or injury will keep him from nailing the Junior Worlds. And then - and then it’s a growth spurt and senior-level classes and JJ fucking Leroy and that’s such a grim prospect he could puke. 

No Victor to compete against, no Victor looking composed in the stands, no Victor tugging at his costume, putting hands through Yuri’s hair in front of everyone as if he doesn’t do the same when they’re alone, Yuri squirming naked in his lap.

Yuri thinks about telling Yakov about Victor’s retirement now, just to watch Victor stutter, trapped in this van, a foot from Yakov’s rage spittle.

Instead Yuri flexes his legs as best he can, scowling at the sea and ignoring Victor when he twists around, smiling at Yuri like there’s any good reason to.

*

Yakov leaves them at the hotel elevator, a stern warning to be at the banquet on time.

Victor clatters them into the suite, toes off his boots, and sits on one of the beds with a sigh. He wriggles _come here_ fingers at Yuri. Yuri flips him off and walks around to plug in his phone. 

“ _Kitten._ ” 

Yuri is still zinging with discontent, and throws Victor a glare as he yanks off his jacket. 

“Don’t,” he bites. 

Victor hauls himself back up and corners Yuri, wraps around him from behind. Yuri gives a token struggle, but it’s _good_ and Victor smells like cold sea air and fading cologne and Yuri breathes it in deep. Spoiled by too much Victor. 

Victor pulls him back to the bed, arms unyielding, and Yuri goes, putting his face in Victor’s neck and making up for it by jamming his knee a little too high for comfort between Victor’s legs, putting a cold hand up his shirt. Victor still presses a kiss to Yuri’s hairline. 

“Ah, my kitten, it’s been a week, hasn’t it?” 

“I won.” 

“Of course.” 

“So did you,” Yuri says, grudgingly. 

Victor sighs. His hands are strong on Yuri’s back, stroking. “Surprise.”

Yuri groans and sits up, straddling Victor’s lap, not gentle when he fits his ass over Victor’s fly. Hands come to his hips automatically, Victor’s thumbs worming into Yuri’s waistband. 

Victor looks good like this: hair mussed, eyes dark in the dim lamplight. Like a filtered photo of himself, softened and warm. 

No one gets to see this, maybe no one else has except for Yuri. If he asked, Victor would certainly be honest. Tell Yuri how many other admirer’s he’d tolerated sitting on his beltbuckle, acting like a petulant prick for the satisfaction of it. But it doesn’t mean Yuri would like the answer. 

Seeing Victor with his hair messy on the pillow and making no attempt to fix it, these little secrets he hoards like his grandfather collects figurines. They sit on the shelf to be admired and carressed when Victor is off conquering the world. 

“We’ve got a little time,” Victor says. 

He means time to fuck before the banquet, but to Yuri’s ears it sounds ominous. A warning that their time will run out. And it will, thanks to Victor’s fucking whims.

Yuri watches Victor, imagines him doing anything other than lording around Saint Petersburg being worshiped and showered in sponsorship money. It’s not hard. Victor could probably model. If he got a nose job.

Victor frowns, squeezes Yuri’s sides. “Are you too tired? Want me to blow you?”

The itch rises, and Yuri groans again, scrubs his hands over his own face so he doesn’t clutch Victor’s. 

“No,” he sighs. “I mean, yes, I’m not too tired.”

Victor laughs, pulls Yuri to his chest, his hands still cool on Yuri’s back. “Perhaps you are, kitten.”

“No,” Yuri mutters into Victor’s neck. 

“Hungry then?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you just need something in your mouth,” Victor says salaciously, bumping Yuri’s hips with his own.

He’s annoyed with Victor, Victor’s stupid plans, and the person he wants to complain about it to is actually Victor. Yuri’s life is a tragic, ill-timed joke and the punchline is always Victor. 

But when they get back to civilization they’ll have far fewer opportunities to sex-murder hotel rooms.

“Fuck me,” he tries to order Victor, but it sounds more like a question.

“Mmmhmm,” Victor hums, but works quickly to get them naked and a towel under Yuri. 

He laughs as he maneuvers Yuri into position, doesn’t like to let go, hands always grasping, always in Yuri’s space, gloriously selfish. His long cock is granite-hard and dripping already, swaying between his legs and betraying him as he carefully arranges Yuri to his liking. Probably chubbing since the medal ceremony. Yuri helpfully holds his knees to his chest for Victor to press fingers inside, though he’s still a little sore from that morning. 

Yuri should probably shower again, but Victor is the dirtiest, horniest bitch in mother Russia and likely wouldn’t let him.

Victor pants for his ass in any state: freshly douched, after a day of practice, once after sitting on a plane for twelve hours. For his birthday Yuri gave Victor permission for a _careful, brief_ fisting and Victor had literally wept. Would probably be wrist-deep in his ass everyday if Yuri was dumb enough to let him.

“Oh, _christ_ ,” Yuri curses when Victor presses down on his abdomen, the heel of his hand cool against the root of Yuri’s scorching hardon.

“Ah, you have to go, don’t you? Did you save this for me?” Victor murmurs, hair falling over his brow as he watches his own hands. Yuri lets go of his legs, wraps them around Victor’s back, tries to urge him forward. Three strong fingers stuffed up his ass and Victor playing with his full bladder is like jumper cables to his dick, leaving Yuri bucking under Victor’s hold. Yuri debates telling Victor it was Yuuri Katsuki’s fault that he never relieved himself at the arena. But Victor doesn’t need to know that. Katsuki is a fascination of Victor’s which Yuri has no intention of encouraging.

“Hmmm? Hydrating all afternoon like a good little skater, holding it and waiting, waiting for me to put you on your back, to feel you full and aching around me.”

“Hardly,” Yuri scoffs on a gasp.

“Ah, angry kittens are terrible liars,” Victor grins, and then smoothly replaces his fingers with his cock. 

Objectively, Victor is an obnoxious fuck. Loves to pause and admire his wet cock spearing Yuri’s asshole. Makes noise like the rest of the world is encouraging his grunts through the walls. Thrusts elaborately and deliberately with the core strength of an olympic athlete. But since this benefits Yuri, he doesn’t really have reasons to complain. 

Truthfully, Yuri doesn’t think he can satisfactorily come anymore without Victor’s hands grabbing so selfishly, big handfuls of Yuri’s ass, his limbs, his bones. At home he routinely jerks-off to the memory of Victor’s face pressed sobbing to Yuri’s shoulder blade, swearing Yuri’s name.

“Ah, Yura, so beautiful. Gorgeous little kitten,” he teases now, his hands nearly spanning Yuri’s waist while he gets up higher on his knees to thrust with more brutal precision. “Vicious little thing, I wanted to fuck you right through your tights out there today.”

“ _God,_ Victor,” Yuri tries to complain. Victor’s thighs under Yuri’s useless hands are hot, the muscles working.  
“Could have rubbed myself off on the back of the boards watching your hungry little ass out there,” Victor chuckles, almost to himself.

Yuri’s bladder is aching, his balls are throbbing, and his ass feels so deliciously, gloriously used, that he forgets his mouth for a moment. 

“Victor. Victor, if you don’t retire next year.. I’ll let you piss on me.”

“What?” Victor says, pausing. He flings his hair out of his eyes to gape at Yuri like a moron. 

“You heard me fine.”

More gaping. “Are you serious?” 

“You don’t want to?” Yuri feigns a shrug as best he can.

“You little witch, you know I do.”

“So you’ll stay on the team?” 

“You want me to? I’ll beat you next year.” 

Yuri fights a snarl, a defiant insult back into Victor’s flushed face. His fingernails dig into Victor’s thighs. 

The inevitability of it is exhausting. Knowing Victor will sweep him at every competition, no matter how valiantly, how passionately, how wholeheartedly Yuri skates. Yuri could skate with technical perfection, with every grace God gifted him, he could enchant the judges and knaw his own wrists open in sacrifice and still Victor will eclipse every effort with the tilt of his chin in just his starting stance. 

And so Yuri can only bare his teeth and nod. Because the only thing worse would be no Victor here, inside Yuri, clutching him so hard it might even be desperation.

Victor comes with a satisfying lack of control, eyes screwed shut, fucking into Yuri like a dog, gasping and jerking. Perfect Victor Nikiforov, hair in his face and _“Yura, Yura,”_ a chanting croak from his lips. Yuri comes from the feeling of Victor tugging him deeper on Victor’s jerking cock, strong hands perfectly inescapable, pulling Victor down to gasp at Victor’s mouth, drowning in him. 

It takes a little longer than usual for Yuri to have enough of Victor’s fingers back in his ass, idly squelching through the mess while Yuri regains his composure. When he’s done, Victor hustles him into the big bland bathroom, mops up his own dick with a wetted towel while Yuri finally relieves himself. Then he makes Yuri sit up on the back of the toilet so Victor can paw at Yuri’s chest while he pisses, pointing his semi-hard dick down to the bowl. Yuri knocks his head into a shelf of towels but he’s too amused to mind. 

“Pervert,” he tells Victor, the come still leaking from his asshole while the sound of Victor’s stream echoes around them. 

“Ah kitten, you’re killing me,” Victor groans, going up on his toes in frustration or pleasure, Yuri isn’t sure there is a difference. Victor squints with one eye and mock-whispers, “Will you let me piss on your face, kitten?” 

Yuri on his knees, head back, Victor’s warm stream baptising his face and neck, wetting his hair, pressure over his eyelids, gathering in the seam of his lips-

“Maybe.”

Victor tips forward and groans into Yuri’s collarbone, actually shudders.

“Watch what you’re doing, _Christ, Victor,_ ” Yuri complains, pushes at his chin. Victor only laughs, oblivious to Yuri manically absorbing it, adding the unselfconscious sound to his private collection of pieces of Victor that belong to no one else. 

*

“The white shirt.”

Yuri very deliberately yanks the blue collared shirt out of his luggage. He needs these little rebellions.

Victor wrinkles his nose but lets Yuri have his victory. 

The banquet isn’t a total snooze, especially after Katsuki gets shitfaced enough to start a dance competition and ends the night sucking face with Chris. Victor stares at the spectacle, mezmorized, but his arm stays over the back of Yuri’s chair. Yuri scowls, but lets Victor have his fun. Tips his head back to rest on Victor’s bicep. Satisfied.


End file.
